


well in hand

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Actor RPF, DC Extended Universe RPF
Genre: Fisting, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: It's a story about fisting. It's also a story about phone sex, regular sex, and long-distance relationships. Mostly, it's about fisting.





	well in hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brodinsons (aeon_entwined)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/gifts).



> I wanted to make a 'four fingers they didn't fit and one thumb they did' joke, but I couldn't quite find an opening. ;) I sincerely hope this is everything you ever wanted in a 100% serious story about one man's attempt to put his hand in someone else's body.

It’s been a roller coaster of a year; life-changing work opportunities, too little time spent enjoying privacy with family, and more moustache jokes than Henry had ever anticipated make for a stressful, yet fulfilling experience, but if there’s a single constant that makes so many late nights, early mornings, and rigorous workout routines worth it, it’s Ben.

Rather, the phone sex he has with Ben.

Fortunately for Henry, Ben can’t hear the sound of facial hair over the phone, which means they can bring up other topics and rely on voices and not visuals. Ben’s quite good at making Henry feel appreciated, and such open adoration for any singular part of Henry’s body would be welcome under any other circumstances, but in the past year Henry has had more than a few moments of genuine concern regarding Ben’s fixation on his moustache, which… well, not that it’s _terrible_ , but he feels more secure knowing that Ben can still get off to him without ogling his upper lip.

But that’s enough ‘stache talk. It’s not as if things have grown stale between them, and that’s the important message here. Their sex life is wonderful. In fact, they’re currently in the middle of a steamy long-distance session that actually began as a call about Twitter memes and photographic manipulations, and somehow turned into sex along the way.

“God, if you were here right now…” Ben’s voice is low (naturally, Henry has him on speaker) but the connection is crystal clear, which is a miracle, given the distance between them. Several thousand kilometers is doing little to disguise the lewd sounds that Ben’s hand makes around his cock; it’s a deliciously slick noise that Henry recognizes from having spent months and months making that precise noise, also with his hand around Ben’s cock. And his mouth. And other things.

“I’d be happy to suck your cock under the table at a luau,” Henry tells him, as lightly as if he were commenting on the weather. The scene’s already set in his mind, since he’s been unabashedly getting off to this particular fantasy for, hm, three weeks now? He can make a fantasy stretch if he has to, and Ben in a luau is fantasy enough even without the sexual bits added. “Right in the middle of it, where everyone can see me on my knees but nobody wants to tell you—”

Ben groans, but it’s one of exasperation and not pleasure. “Ugh, what? No, not under the table.”

“Public sex, though,” Henry insists. Ben might disapprove, but he’s still gonna stay hard over it. “What did _you_ have in mind? I bend over and you accidentally slip inside?”

Ben grunts again. Henry does his best to listen for the upstroke, so at least he can sync up while he’s palming his own cock. He has a toy nearby, waiting to be brought into use, but he’s not entirely sure that he’ll get that far tonight. He’s actually kind of tired, and he’d really only wanted to hear Ben’s voice. The conversation itself is nice, but the sex is a pleasant bonus.  
“I should spank you.”

“Are your fingers gonna slip inside?” Henry asks hopefully, eyeing a trusty dildo. He smiles to himself as Ben laughs on the end of the line. It’s a little high-pitched. He’s caught Ben off-guard.

“You never know. Maybe if you’re bad enough, you’ll get more than just a spank.”

“Mmm, you can just finger me and tell me I’m naughty.” His cock twitches a bit at the very mention of Ben’s hands. He thinks about those a lot. They’ve been extremely good to him, historically, and sometimes he likes to imagine them in places they’ve already been without the rest of Ben attached to them. “Or you could just fuck me in public. That works too.”

“You’re really into the public stuff now,” Ben comments breathlessly. Henry isn’t offended by being called out because he can still hear Ben jerking himself in the background, which means something must be working for him. If he finds out that Ben has a photo of his moustache open on his phone, though, he’s going to be upset. “Public blowjobs, public fingering—god, _could_ I finger you in public?”

“Nothing sounds better than looking into the waiter’s eyes while I’m sitting on your lap and you’re making me come in my pants,” Henry says happily. 

Ben groans loudly. The slick noise of his hand becomes slightly faster. It’s barely perceptible, and Henry counts it as a win.

“Mm, you could finger me at the table,” Henry murmurs. “Maybe start with one, then a second… three…?”

“Jesus.” 

“You could work up to four,” Henry suggests. Four would be a comfortable number. Probably about the size of the dildo he’s got his eye on, which is about the size of Ben’s cock, which means Ben might as well be fantasizing about fucking him in public, but nobody’s paying attention to details. “You could almost fuck me with all of your fingers… write your name on my insides…”

Ben laughs breathlessly. “Fuck. Break my wrist in the process.”

Henry pushes himself upright and reaches for the lube. “You could put your wrist in too. I don’t think anyone would notice. I’d let you fist me.”

To his surprise, Ben responds with a particularly breathy moan, then follows it up with what Henry assumes is a couple of buttons that have been pressed in the throes of passion. He grins to himself, slicking up his own fingers while the sounds of Ben’s panting and the occasional breathless curse fills his room.

“That was quick.”

“I didn’t expect that,” Ben replies.

Henry reclines and spreads his legs. “Neither did I. I thought I’d have another few minutes, at least.” Another few minutes would have gotten him to dildo territory, and he probably would have returned to the public fucking fantasy, but he can still keep the fantasy alive.

“No, the fisting.”

“Mm, yeah.”

“You really wanna… like, my entire hand?” Henry doesn’t respond for a moment, too occupied with rubbing his fingers between his thighs, prompting Ben to ask, “What are you doing over there? Are you getting off on fisting?”

“Yeah, just keep talking about your hand,” Henry says lightly. He can hear the rustling of fabric of some sort as Ben shifts and grunts, settling himself into a more comfortable position somewhere on the other side of the country. He’s still a little out of breath, and the thought of his fingers covered in come is one that Henry can easily latch onto.

“Yeah, sure. Yeah. Wait, _public_ fisting?” 

Henry closes his eyes and sighs contentedly.

—

Months pass before they finally get a chance to see one another in person, and when they finally meet up at a hotel in Florida, their reunion is precisely as joyful as expected.

Daily Mail hasn’t yet caught on to Ben being in the state, let alone the city. Henry himself has an uncanny ability to fly almost anywhere without being recognized, which has come in handy more times than he can count, so he’s able to sneak about and slip into Ben’s room without being discovered. It makes him feel like a teenager, or like he’s just gotten a message on Grindr from the anonymous hookup waiting for him two storeys up.

Somehow, he doesn’t hate the feeling.

He knocks twice on the door and tips his head toward it, listening for the sound of footsteps within. The moment the door swings open, he pushes through and shuts the door behind himself, already walking Ben backward into the room and toward the nearest horizontal surface. (Or maybe the second-nearest. He’s just noticed that the closest one is actually a small table, and he would prefer something softer.)

Ben has lost most of his Batman muscle by now, which is perfectly acceptable, considering the better part of Henry’s own superhero physique has gone down the toilet as well. Naturally, the first thing Henry does once their shirts are off and their bodies are horizontal is bury his face in Ben’s soft belly and wrap his arms around him to ensure that the only thing capable of prying them apart is the Jaws of Life.

“I missed you so much,” Henry mumbles. “Never leave me again.”

Ben grins fondly down at him, carding his fingers through Henry’s hair until he’s practically purring like a kitten.

“I missed you too,” he says gently. “Did you spend the entire trip here thinking about my hand in your ass?”

Henry rolls off of Ben and onto his side with a laugh. Who said romance was dead? “I’ve been practicing for weeks with my biggest dildo,” he promises, pressing a hand over his heart before holding his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart for emphasis. He doesn’t have to, since Ben’s seen his biggest dildo, but he likes how Ben wets his lips and gazes at his fingers. “I think that’s pretty close. Your hand isn’t that big.”

It’s a lie. Ben reaches down and wraps his fingers around Henry’s to prove it. His hand is massive, and Henry happily laces their fingers together while Ben says, “Good. We’re gonna have to try some foreplay first, though.”

“Oh, I won’t make it through foreplay,” Henry says confidently. He leans up and presses a kiss to the underside of Ben’s chin, then hums as Ben tugs him closer and into their first proper kiss in months.

 

With only one shared night guaranteed, they have a lot of heavy petting to catch up on, and it’s hard to find a way to incorporate fisting into their typical reunion sex ritual. Henry maxes out at three fingers; it’s been so long since he’s even had fingers up there—not counting his own, since that’s practically a daily occurrence for him when their long-distance thing becomes more long than distance—that he can’t help but come all over himself, shuddering and clutching at Ben’s arms while Ben rubs his prostate with one hand and holds him by the hip with the other. 

Not getting to it on the first try isn’t a big deal. Ben doesn’t mention it even once on his way to eat Henry out afterward, and Henry finds himself too occupied with getting Ben’s socks off so that he can appreciate the full picture to worry about the number of fingers he’s capable of fitting inside his orifices.

They’re both patient. There will be plenty of opportunities in the future for them to fit the entirety of Ben’s hand up Henry’s backside, but there’s currently only one opportunity for Henry to choke himself with Ben’s cock while reclining on what may be the softest hotel duvet known to man, and he’s going to take that over all else.

*

Chance number two comes the second night.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Henry mumbles against Ben’s ear. He’s covering Ben completely, slumped against his chest while currently making no attempt to ride him. Ben, angel that he is, is making a heroic attempt to fuck him anyway, thrusting as slowly and thoroughly as any mortal man is capable of doing. It feels wonderful, and he doesn’t even need to get hard again for it, he’s so relaxed. “I don’t think I could’ve done another month.”

Ben smooths a hand down Henry’s back and presses a kiss to the side of his head. He’s done surprisingly well to last this long, though their current session is nowhere near as frantic as yesterday’s. Even their morning had been a self-indulgent blowjob tradeoff followed by an actual breakfast in bed. Maybe Ben’s taken a pill and elected to just surprise Henry with it. Stranger things have happened.

“Mm. Last few weeks were rough.”

“I was handling it fine for a while,” Henry says. He turns his head and mouths lazily at the curve of Ben’s neck. “Until you decided you wanted to get kinky.”

Ben pats him supportively. “Right, I forgot I’m the one who suggested leather bodysuits.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Ben slides his hand down over Henry’s ass and squeezes him, then rubs his fingers lightly around the spot where his cock disappears inside Henry. “What about this?”

The sensation is so unexpected that it makes Henry shudder. He’s already sensitive from earlier, and the pressure of Ben’s fingers next to his cock seems to override his basic language capabilities for a few seconds. 

“You really liked that idea,” he gasps.

Ben moves his fingers away and slides his hand back up, molding it against Henry’s ass. “You suggested it.”

“You got off on it.”

“So did you,” Ben murmurs. Henry wraps both arms around him and drags his nails over Ben’s back in retaliation. He can practically decapitate that phoenix by memory. Ben responds by gripping his ass and thrusting into him, and Henry encourages that with a groan, eager to get things moving again now that they’ve both admitted to masturbating to the thought of Ben’s hand in tight places. “Wanna try it?”

“Yeah,” Henry breathes. He sinks his teeth into the top of Ben’s shoulder, then drags his tongue over the spot. “But maybe tomorrow.”

 

When tomorrow comes, Henry wakes up to Ben curled up behind him, still asleep and all but picturesque in the strip of morning light peeking from behind the drawn curtains. Henry rolls over and buries his face in Ben’s shoulder with a sleepy mumble. His body aches all over, mostly below the waist, but also above. It’s the satisfying day-after soreness that one achieves from a good workout, if one involving a lot of hip movements and temporomandibular exercises. 

Once he’s nuzzled happily into the warmth of Ben’s chest, Ben slings an arm over him and sighs.

(To spoil the story, none of Ben’s hands end up in Henry’s body before they part ways, but Henry spends a few moments at the security line in the airport wishing that maybe one had.)

—

The next month they cross paths in LA, and it’s kind of a miracle that they do. Ben has been busier than ever, Henry never stops moving _ever_ , and with a sprinkle of good fortune they find themselves tumbling into bed at some anonymous motel in the middle of the day, scraping each other’s cheeks up with the barest hint of daytime stubble.

“You remember that thing we were talking about?” Ben asks, mouth pressed against the crook of Henry’s neck. Both of Ben’s hands are holding Henry’s ass like he’s worried it might fall off, which is only fair since Henry is doing the same thing to his cock.

“You mean that thing where I said we should just get married but you said ‘oh, no, we should wait’?”

Henry doesn’t have the patience to pull punches. It’s been nearly three full weeks since he’s gotten laid. He hasn’t even had time to jerk off in the past two. It’s been _terrible_.

Ben inhales sharply and thrusts into Henry’s hand. “Fuck, no, the—”

“The thing where I call you daddy,” Henry suggests.

Ben groans and lets his forehead fall against Henry’s shoulder, and it’s precisely the moment when Henry knows it’s going to be a good day.

 

It’s a good day, and it turns into a good night. 

They don’t quite make it all the way to fisting, but they get close; after a bit of fooling around and a couple of wonderful warm-up orgasms, Ben happily accepts the role of the world’s laziest partner and stretches out over the entirety of the bed, occasionally kissing Henry’s hip while they scroll through videos that will hopefully serve as a guide for them to determine which way Ben’s thumb is supposed to go.

“You know, I always thought you were supposed to wear those long rubber gloves.”

“We’re not going up to the elbow,” Henry says, petting over his hair with his free hand. Ben makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like ‘suit yourself’, and Henry decides to ignore it in favour of pulling up a new (and less intimidating) video tutorial. 

It takes a bit of time to get to a snug but comfortable four fingers. The thumb is a bit too much, and Henry hadn’t planned on meeting up so he hasn’t really been watching his diet, so this is good enough for now. Four fingers is close enough to fisting, anyway, Henry thinks.

For now.

—

Then Henry decides to go to Hawaii.

—

The air conditioning is fantastic inside Ben’s room, but it doesn’t keep Henry from sweating profusely over yet another lush hotel duvet. He’s sweating because Ben’s hand is currently part-way-verging-on-all-the-way inside his body, thumb included, up to the widest part where the first knuckle of his thumb is making Henry feel like maybe they should have consulted his doctor about this beforehand.

Up until now, everything’s gone perfectly. Ben’s so good at this (and so intimately acquainted with Henry’s insides) that Henry should in fact be paying him for his services, and it helps that Ben’s already fucked him once (condomless, like a heathen).

“You’re still squeezing my hand,” Ben complains. Or it might not be a complaint, and may be awed commentary on the current state of Henry’s body. It’s difficult to tell. 

Henry whines as Ben twists his wrist, the sensation of knuckles brushing against his sensitive innards an unintentional side effect of Ben leaning down to ease the strain on himself. “When I do it to you, you can try relaxing.”

Ben glances up. “You want me to stop? I can still stop, it’s not quite in yet. What do you want me to do?”

“It’s not in yet?” Henry exhales hard and rubs his thumb over Ben’s wrist as Ben pushes in again, millimetres at a time. Ben’s skin is covered in lube halfway up his forearm in case someone slips on the extremely high thread count of these sheets, but as of now Henry’s pretty sure that he’s not going to go any further than this without some convincing. It’s torture, absolutely, but it’s looking more and more like a surmountable goal. “God. Feels like it’s never going to end. How close?”

Hell. He may even have Ben’s entire hand in him by dinner.

When he looks down, he finds Ben frozen stiff with a look of immense concentration on his face. His hair isn’t long enough to obscure his eyes, luckily, and Henry can see that his very intent gaze is fixed at the spot where his hand meets Henry’s body. 

“Uh,” Ben says. 

Henry narrows his eyes and tries not to clench down around him. “What’s ‘uh’?”

“Uh,” Ben says again, just a bit louder, as if buying himself time. Henry can feel his wrist rotating again, and his knuckles do something that renders Henry a shivering mess for a solid seven seconds. “Sorry, not moving. You want a precise measurement? Like, inches? Centimetres?”

Henry can’t even laugh properly without increasing the pressure on Ben’s hand. Instead, he makes a breathless sound of amusement and tips his head back against the pillow, still thumbing over Ben’s wrist in a silent plea to remain as still as possible. “Yeah. Centimetres.”

“Mm…”

“If you’d just adopt the metric system, you wouldn’t have to convert it in your head.”

“I have my hand in your ass,” Ben reminds him. 

Henry grins down at him and opens his mouth to remind Ben that he is well-loved despite being American, but Ben beats him to the figurative punch. His fingers do something that Henry’s never felt in this particular region of his body before, and it leaves Henry grasping helplessly at Ben’s wrist as his body gives in a second time and sends him shuddering into a relatively dry (and immensely satisfying) orgasm.

Ben rests his head against Henry’s knee and smiles up at him. “You want me to convert that into metric?”

“Fuck you,” Henry mumbles.

Ben kisses the inside of Henry’s knee and respectfully doesn’t tease him further.

A comfortable silence descends while Henry attempts to pull himself back to complete consciousness. It’s nice to be in a position like this, actually; there’s no one at the door asking for one of them to come to set, the paparazzi hasn’t caught on to Henry’s presence (again), and his mind is free of the usual worries that accompany travel and work and handling a relationship that could be pulled out from under him by the public at any moment. It’s all gone. It’s just his fuzzy brain and Ben’s big, warm hand.

If this is what fisting is all about, Henry could get used to it.

“Hey.”

Another kiss lands gently on the inside of Henry’s thigh, and it’s suddenly a struggle for him to blink his eyes open and look down at Ben. “Mm?”

“Doing okay?”

“Very,” Henry says dreamily. He rubs the top of Ben’s head with his free hand, too lazy to even card his fingers through Ben’s hair. “You?”

“Me? I’m okay. How does it feel?”

He sort of tips his head in the direction of Henry’s ass, and Henry lets his own head fall back with a chuckle. “Good. It’s good. Feels much better than before.”

It isn’t even a lie. He’s pretty sure the second climax made everything all nice and loose. It’s not difficult to feel the widest part of Ben’s hand in there when he shifts a little, but everything feels great.

“You want me to take it out?”

“Mm-mm.” He can't even bring himself muster enough energy to tell Ben to leave his fingers right where they are. Is this what people mean when they say fisting is an experience like no other?

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to keep your hand in here for this long,” Ben says after a moment. He flexes his fingers and sends a pleasant shiver all the way up Henry’s spine. “Like, hygiene-wise. And nerve-wise.”

Henry blinks his eyes open and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds. He’s been waiting for a lizard to crawl across the walls and maybe fall on top of him. That seems like a pretty regular occurrence for people on Hawaiian vacations. “Oh. Is your hand asleep?”

“Kinda,” Ben says.

“Sure it’s not carpal tunnel?”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s not carpal tunnel, my _hand_ ’s in your ass.”

Henry sighs. Ben’s shoulders are too far away for him to scratch up absentmindedly, so he settles for resting both hands on his stomach instead. For comfort reasons. Not because he’s trying to feel Ben’s hand through his abdomen. “Mmm, okay. Go slow. Thank you.”

The removal of Ben’s hand is preceded by an absolutely horrid squelching noise that Henry almost laughs at, but his attention is quickly commanded by the sensation of his body stretching once more around the width of Ben’s hand. It makes him shudder again, but Ben is kind enough to keep his fingers to himself, and after several long, seconds of glacial hand withdrawal and a few more nasty noises, Ben finally sits back on his knees and clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, not-so-discreetly wiping his hand on the sheets. His gaze is still fixed between Henry’s open thighs, and Henry's pretty sure he's not just staring at his soft cock. “You’re probably gonna feel that in the morning.”

“Mmm, that's okay,” Henry says. He holds his arms open and waits for Ben to crawl up and collapse atop him to form a great sweaty, lube-covered heap. “But I need to try public sex at a luau before I leave. We're still doing that.”

Ben pats him gently on the thigh, which is all the answer Henry needs.

 

And Henry, god help him, feels it in the morning.

—

In a few months’ time, Henry finds himself a continent apart from Ben once more. They’re in the same country, this time, at least, with Henry in Los Angeles and Ben in New York, and they’re both lounging in their respective luxurious hotel rooms, jerking off furiously over another phone call, because they’re nothing if not consistent.

“Four,” Henry pants, referring to the fact that he has successfully managed to squeeze four of his own fingers inside himself once more and desperately requires some form of praise and/or validation for it.

Luckily, Ben’s always good about that. His voice, already breathy, nearly breaks when he speaks. “God, that’s amazing. I bet you look so hot.”

“You want a photo?”

“Can you take one?”

Good question. One of Henry’s hands is mostly inside his body, and the other is completely covered in lube. He looks around frantically for some tissues or maybe a towel or something else to wipe his fingers on, but he’s mostly just got this lush comforter and these silky sheets, and he still feels bad about the things they did to that duvet in Hawaii. 

He doesn’t regret the things they did _on_ the duvet, mind. Just the fluids they left on it.

“Nope,” he says, “just gonna have to imagine it.”

Ben groans, frustrated. The amplified sound of his cock sliding through his hand fills the room. Henry sincerely hopes he doesn’t have a neighbour above, below, or adjacent to him. Anyone who decides to walk the hallway outside will be taking a risk, too. Maybe he should have left a note at the front desk. _Situation well in hand, please do not disturb._

“I’m still thinking about your ass after I had my hand in it,” Ben admits. “God, I wish you could’ve seen it.”

“I wish you could see me right now,” Henry murmurs. He’s actually even kind of hard this time. It probably _would_ make for a good photo. “FaceTime?”

He doesn’t even get a chance to open his eyes before he hears the phone ringing with a request for a video chat. Without pausing to wipe his hand off, he grabs it and sticks it down between his legs.

“How’s that?”

He can only see the bottom corner of Ben’s face, upside-down, but it certainly looks like the face of a man who hasn’t seen an asshole in months.

“I ever tell you how amazing you are?”

“Can’t hurt to do it again,” Henry says. He pulls the phone back up and lovingly props it against the pillow next to him so that he can look at Ben, finger himself, and jerk off all at once. The angle is kind of terrible and he was probably not designed to be this flexible, but with a good orgasm and a warm shower he’ll be right as rain. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Only when I’m fisting you,” Ben says.

Henry grins. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s doing things to his own prostate that even Ben doesn’t know how to do, and everything to do with the fact that he can write another entry in his Ways Ben Has Surprised Him diary.

“Next time, I’ll have an Instagram post planned out for the occasion.”

“Live video,” Ben suggests. “My hand, your ass, a couple of emojis to make it family friendly. Hundreds of people watching.”

A particularly colourful image blooms in Henry’s head, and this time he’s the one stifling a moan, cock twitching in his hand as he fucks himself through his first step toward a good night’s sleep.

“It’s always public sex with you,” Ben says fondly. He’s smiling into the camera, and Henry can’t help but give him a sheepish grin back as he tries to catch his breath.

“You really… underestimate my follower count.”

“Thousands, then.”

While Ben mocks his Instagram fame, Henry manages to ease his hand free and immediately flops onto his side, curling up against the phone-cradling pillow as if it might bleed the same comforting warmth as Ben himself. It’s a poor substitute, but he’s post-coital now, well-fucked and covered in lube and sweat and come. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t plan to make this work.

And for Henry and Ben, things usually do.


End file.
